Heat of the Desert
by Rachel-Jane Kensington
Summary: We can learn a lot from other people. Especially about ourselves. Bellydancing!Morgana, Frustrated!Arthur. ArMor songfic inspired by Mandy Moore’s ‘In My Pocket’. Rated M for explicit sexual content.


A/N: 1) This fic centers around a Sultan of the Middle East visiting Camelot to work out a trade route agreement with Uther. It's a little far-fetched for the time period, but I beg of you to just sort of roll with it lol I swear on my honor as an ArMor shipper, it will be worth it 2) In my last fic I was adamant about keeping to the legend's half-brother/half-sister element, but it's sort of up in the air in this one. They explicitly state that they are not related and you can interpret that as literal or their just not knowing it yet *shrug* totally up to you.

Pronunciation guide:

Ibrahim: EE-bra-him  
Ima: EE-ma  
Oran: or-RAHN

**Heat of the Desert **

_Among the many muted faces you try to find me in the spaces  
You're drawn to my song, you only move to keep from sinking  
You close your eyes as if you're thinking, afraid all along  
That my eyes will reveal everything that you're needing_

Morgana learned very quickly in life that Uther is not a tolerant man. She knows he does only what he thinks necessary for the protection of his people, but it would take more skillful denial than she can muster to stay ignorant of his tyranny. So when the King sends word to a low-ranking, but strategically located, Sultan of the Middle Eastern realm that he wishes to strike a treaty of peace, Morgana's heart feels like a bird trapped beneath a rock.

She wants to soar with the hope that her adoptive father is finally beginning to understand the importance of peace talks and diplomacy. But she is no fool, a lifetime at court has not been lost on her quick mind. Her nerves crackle with worry over the King's possible intentions towards these people who, like so many others, have done nothing to threaten Uther or his people but may suffer at his hand for their divergent beliefs. When word arrives that they have accepted his invitation, she must force herself to smile and clap with the rest of the courtiers.

The priests of Uther's council and libraries would condemn her of blasphemy, but she has snuck her way into books about the Persian faith and doesn't find it at all threatening. Though they use different words (which, Morgana thinks is only to be expect, as they speak an entirely different language), their religion seems to consist of the same basic elements as Uther's Christianity (it still tastes a lie to call it her own as well). They kneel in prayer to one God. They think it a sin to spill the blood of other men. They measure their lives by the divine words of a singular holy book. Sin is punished, purity is awarded. It all sounds like the same beliefs masked in funny accents and words that are difficult to pronounce, but sort of beautiful in their own exotic way.

When the Sultan's party marches through Camelot up to the castle, the entire country stops to stare. These people, with their brightly dyed clothes, fanciful designs and dark complexions are entirely alien to the English. Morgana watches their procession in breathless fascination from the battlements, intrigued by the different colors and angles and beauty. Suddenly, she feels the heat of another body come to stand beside her. An inaudible gasp of surprise leaves her throat, but when she looks up her expression crumples to disappointment. Just Arthur, coming to annoy her as usual.

"I still can't believe father's doing this." He's watching them with wary eyes full of distrust. Sighing inwardly, she wishes he weren't so easily-led by the lies of the King.

"They seem like very interesting people. I can't wait to meet them." He's always asking her why she insists on disagreeing with him about every little single issue. At first, she disagrees with him about this fact too, but with time accepts that he's right. Anything he pushes away, she welcomes with open arms. Anything he gravitates toward, she sees as vile or beneath her. She isn't sure why her first instinct is always to challenge him, or why getting under his skin that way never grows old. But the 'why' of it doesn't change it's truth.

As he looks down at her, Morgana is sure she knows exactly what he's thinking. _'Silly girl. Must you always go walking so blindly into the fire?'_ But he's wrong this time. These people will be good and kind and far more interesting than any others Uther has ever invited to court. Inwardly, she shakes her head with pity. Poor, ignorant, predictable Arthur.

When they have all reached the courtyard safely, Morgana rushes to the Great Hall so she can greet the guests alongside her King. Arthur lopes in lazily behind her, bored arrogance in his every move. The fervent whispers of the court room are silenced as the heavy oak doors part and a parade of men and women filter in. Morgana's eyes widen like a child's in fascination and she doesn't even feel the large, toothy smile that finds her face. There's a grace to the way these people glide across the floor, a prided wisdom in the way they carry themselves.

The Sultan, Ibrahim, offers Uther a sweeping bow and they regard one another silently for a few seemingly tense moments before chuckling, as if old comrades. The King comes forward to shake Ibrahim's weathered hands and each seems genuinely happy to see the other. Morgana beams with joy as she is introduced to the Sultan's daughter, Ima, who is strikingly beautiful and seems to be about her own age. His son, Oran, is almost taller than Arthur and certainly just as regal in all his broad-shouldered, chivalrous charm. When he bends to kiss her hand, she feels a twinge of satisfaction and for half a breath her eyes lift over Oran's thick hair to meet the Prince of Camelot's cold gaze. It's more than obvious that he doesn't share her amusement.

Excitement, new friends and making Arthur jealous? The clocks have yet to strike noon and Morgana can already tell this is going to be a fantastic day. Smiling, she returns Oran's flattery with the kind of ease expected of her rank. He stares her down almost the same way as her adopted brother does when their fiery banter is going full speed. But she can already see that Oran is like all the others. Unlike the Prince, this man would have no trouble admitting enrapture or devotion. For reasons Morgana cannot pin down, she feels a twinge of disappointment run through her at the realization.

Their flirting is interrupted by a loud, double clap as the Sultan summons the first of what will surely be many gifts. It is an obvious effort to stroke Uther's ego and it is a game every court plays when visiting the others. They fall all over themselves in public to be gracious and adoring so as to get what they want. Though anyone who has grown up in a court can see through this veil, it is a very _pretty_ veil and it works. Especially with Uther.

His truly exuberated smile at the barrels of saltpeter and various other spices being rolled in is one Morgana hardly ever sees. These spices will save the castle enormous amounts of money in the coming winter months and will ensure that Arthur can effectively preserve all of his hunting trip kills. Clapping Ibrahim on the back, Uther thanks him profusely, asks the court to welcome him warmly once more and then ushers the Sultan and his son away to more private chambers so that they can begin to discuss business.

The royal sons follow their fathers and as they pass, Arthur shoots her a troubled glance. Between years of relentless teasing and playing, they have developed their own silent understanding of one another and a glance is all it takes for her to read his thoughts. He wants to welcome these men, but he's nervous. His father has bred him to distrust anyone different, how can he be expected to reverse nearly twenty years of adopted beliefs in one afternoon? He's confused and unsure of himself and more than anything he's afraid of disappointing his father. When he brushes past her, she takes his hand and squeezes the rough, calloused skin hard.

'_Don't doubt yourself.' _Her steady, calm gaze reminds him and she smiles softly. _'You're Prince Arthur. You can do anything, remember?' _

Just before he disappears into his father's dark chamber, she is certain that the confident swagger has returned to his strut, denoting that he has gathered himself again and that she has helped him to do it. He won't admit this of course, ever. But Morgana knows it's true, and that is enough.

'_Now.' _She thinks, turning to Gwen with an excited, rather unladylike grin, _'I have a banquet to get ready for.'_

_

* * *

_

From the moment Morgana walks into the Great Hall that evening, her heart hammers away in the confines of her chest. Music she has never heard before (the heavy drum beats shaking something feral awake in her soul) fills the stone walls as men dance before Uther's table, juggling torches lit with fire. Every corner seems to be bursting with new colors and the heady scent of exotic spices. The King's ward delights in how much more rich and lustrous this culture is than Britain's obsessive piety and virtue. She wants to see it, know it, get lost in all of it at once. If Uther has ever made a good decision in his entire life, it was inviting the Sultan to court.

The rest of the evening is equally as thrilling. Soldiers play out intricate, acrobatic battles before _swallowing_ their long, curved swords, drawing gasps from the crowd. Men charm snakes out of baskets and into twisting, hypnotic dances. Story-tellers jump around the room, enacting stupendous imitations of voices and accents that have the entire court doubled over and teary-eyed with laughter. Every second leaves Morgana so wide-eyed and captivated she barely takes any wine, doesn't even touch her food (which seems to be the only remnant of Albion culture at this point).

Beside her Ima sits with perfect posture, her skin (like tea after it has been stirred with milk) glows almost like gold in the abundant candle light. Whenever Morgana can string together words through her fascination, she leans over and asks the Sultan's daughter what is happening. Why they are wearing swaths of uncut cloth instead of tight, tailored gowns and tunics. What kind of snakes are those and how do they dance so? How is it even possible for men to eat their own blades? And…is that story about the genie in the lamp true?

Like a true princess, the Sultan's daughter has a beautiful, airy laugh that washes over Morgana like a spring breeze. Her answers are simple and short, but often make the girl beside her exude her own pretty laugh. They share the same easy charm, the same otherworldly grace, and there is a similar innocent mischief that flickers in both of their gazes. Though Ima is observant, she knows enough to keep most of what she sees to herself. However, there is one curiosity she cannot help but voice.

"You're brother is a very handsome man." Morgana shrugs, forcing herself to ignore the fact that her mind is screaming 'He is _not_ my brother!'. It won't make a difference what Morgana says, that is what the world sees. As long as she and Arthur keep that line bold between them, it matters little to her anyway.

"He would agree with you." It's the only safe response Morgana can think of. Though the Sultan's daughter giggles at this, her perceptive eyes are darkened with disappointment.

"It's a shame he doesn't seem to share your enthusiasm for our culture." She murmurs, before taking a sip of wine.

"Oh, that's just Arthur." Morgana rolls her eyes at the King's prat of a son, remembering his stand-offish air earlier. "Pay no mind to his sulky attitude. He's just too spoiled for his own good."

"Aren't all men?" Ima's elegant, dark eyebrows lift and Morgana thinks, it's nice to hear someone say it out loud for once. She concedes a nod, lifting her goblet to clink with Ima's in mid air. Then, suddenly, everything goes quiet as a procession of veiled women with big, beautifully curved brown eyes and impossibly long lashes make their way inside. They are wearing thick robes made for trekking across desert sands, all of black. As they stand, still and silent in formation, Morgana watches with bated breath, curious as to what these woman will do. She has seen so many fantastical things this evening, her mind cannot begin to even guess.

The music floats out, slow and burning. As the drums join in with their gentle beat, it begins to _sound_ like heat and sand and incense. Slowly the women wind their way out of their garb, and a few servants hurry by to pick the robes up off the floor. But no one sees them, far too distracted by the fact that there are now five gorgeous women standing in the middle of the King's hall, half naked. They seem to be wearing very snug petticoats but these cover only their breasts and a strip of skin along their backs. No other material is visible along their taught, dark skin until just below their hips. Here long, flowing skirts begin, fashioned from strips of cloth, leaving little to the imagination about their elegantly long, but strong thighs and calves. The outfits are made from silk, dyed in the most extravagant dark reds, striking blues and burning oranges. They stand proudly with unwavering gazes and suddenly (for the first time in her entire life) Morgana feels as though she isn't the most beautiful girl in the room.

As much as she hates second-place, it's almost worth it when the music picks up and they begin to dance. However, this is not any kind of dancing anyone in Camelot has ever seen before. They lift their hips, snake them back down to the beat and begin stepping around one another. Their skirts fan out as they move like bewitched flames come to life in human form, bodies contorting themselves in ways Morgana hadn't even known possible. For a moment, she is afraid Uther (in all his moral fanaticism) may ask them to stop behaving so improperly in his own court. But as she glances down the table, she sees only a man enchanted. Though he is probably struggling with himself not to show it, the King does not want their dance to end and for this his Ward is grateful because these women are the most incredible thing she has ever seen.

Before she returns her gaze towards the dancing however, she cannot help but catch a glimpse of Arthur who, until now, has seemed vehemently opposed to everything about these people. His eyes are no longer bored and dark, but narrowed and concentrated. She knows that look. It's the same one he gets when he's trying to hit a very difficult target at a tournament. It's the look he gets when he wants something terribly, _terribly_ bad. An amused smirk flits over her face as she turns back towards the dancers and realizes, he's never looked at a _woman_ that way before. Too enthralled to be truly upset, Morgana can't help feeling a little dejected. He's never looked at _her_ that way, and chances are good that he never will.

"What exactly is it that they're doing?" She leans over to whisper in Ima's ear when she begins to follow the twisting and curving of the dancers again.

"We call it belly dancing. Beautiful, isn't it?" Morgana can only offer a distracted nod. The women have begun encouraging their crowd to clap along to the beat of the music and she does so adamantly. She is hypnotized by their daring outfits, their exotic beauty, their mysterious talent. It's an easy thing to admit (to herself, anyway) when she realizes that she wants to _be_ them. Tall and irresistible, able to bewitch Kings and Princes without uttering a single word. It is then that, in all her headstrong confidence, Morgana vows to do just that.

_Hoping the melody will leave you, you walk to where I might not see you  
Reach out to the wind, looking to catch it for a minute  
But just to hold and not be in it, I've been where you've been  
Cause some how you're so afraid the love will reveal what you're made of_

"That was quite a feast." Gwen comments as she readies her Lady's chambers for bed a few hours later. Morgana herself is laying quietly beneath her covers, bottom lip bitten in concentrated thought. She's imagining the dancers, trying to memorize the rhythmic jerk of their spines, the slow and steady rotation of their hips, the contortion of their bodies into impossible angles. She's going to learn it, she swears to herself, no matter how hard it proves. "My Lady?"

Gwen stops to offer her a concerned look and Morgana snaps away from her reverie, feeling a little silly.

"Sorry." She blushes, trying to look it. Not that it matters. Gwen never grows angry with her, she isn't allowed to.

"It was nothing, my Lady." Gwen shrugs as she gets back to work, putting all of the clothes Morgana tried on before the feast into a basket for washing. "I was only saying what an exciting night it was for the palace."

"Wasn't it?" Morgana's face lights up and she is suddenly at her maid's full attention. "I've never seen anything so incredible in my life. I have a half a mind to sneak into their caravans and let them take me back to the deserts with them."

"Wouldn't _that_ be an adventure?" Guinevere laughs wistfully, not taking her seriously for a moment. A sigh breaks past Morgana's lips as she falls back against her pillows.

"All those breathtaking outfits and the music and the colors and the perfumes and dancing. It's so different from Camelot…or anything in Albion."

"To say the least." The maid-servant nods adamantly, "But wouldn't you be lonely? Out there on your own."

Thinking she is implying something about their very close friendship, Morgana's face melts into a heart-warmed smiled.

"Oh, Gwen. You know I'd bring you with me. Can't imagine how I'd get on anywhere without _you_." Girls of noble birth are taught to spew out flattery at the drop of a hat from the moment they can walk. Though Morgana has a natural knack for this talent, her words for Gwen are the honest truth. She has few real friends to depend on and counts her maid-servant as the best among them.

"I wasn't speaking of myself, my Lady." Gwen smiles as she takes a seat at the edge of Morgana's four-poster bed, the last lit candle in the room between her fingers.

"Then who?" The King's ward seems genuinely confused now, her thoughts so consumed by the palace's guests that she can hardly remember anything else. Though, even if her mind was clear, she would have at least _feigned_ ignorance as to whom Gwen is referring. She is too proud for the truth.

"Well, it's just that…" The maid hesitates, unsure if she is speaking too boldly. Sometimes the line between servant and friend is so blurry. Finally, she forces her gaze to meet Morgana and spits out the words lingering behind her eyes. "Don't you fear Arthur would miss you?"

A sound of dark amusement comes from Morgana's throat and she rolls her eyes.

"You're such a funny girl, Gwen. Don't ever lose that charm."

"I'm quite serious, my Lady. And I think, given time, you would miss him too."

The realization stings her into silence and she allows this truth to sink in before conceding a nod. Her eyes are distant as they avoid Guinevere's.

"I suppose you're right. Who can imagine a life free of that pompous arse?" When she searches for Gwen's eyes again, trying to turn the moment into a joke, her friend won't let her. She's pleading with Morgana to admit, if nowhere else but here in the dark and quiet, that she harbors at least_ some _attachment to the King's son. Morgana's soft and small hands, that have never seen a day of work in their lives, twist in her lap as she fights an internal battle. "He's just so…and I know I can be a little…but I can't stand it when he…and then he looks at me like…sometimes…I feel as though he hates every step I take."

Gwen's eyebrows furrow and her warm hands find the young Lady's.

"How can you say that? Morgana, I tell you honestly, he is the most self-centered, arrogant, spoiled brat I have ever known." And they shared a good laugh over that, "But if there is anyone in this world who makes him look beyond himself, anyone who could draw his face away from a mirror or brutish violence, it is you. Believe me, he adores you."

Morgana _doesn't _believe her, because she knows better. Because the disappointing truth isn't worth even a few moments of deluded ecstasy. Squeezing her best friend's hand, she fakes a smile and murmurs 'thank you' before sending Gwen to bed.

* * *

It's a few hours after the midday meal and Uther has taken Ibrahim and some of his party on a grand tour of Camelot. They will be gone until dark and Morgana knows it is safe to sneak into the Great Hall for at least an hour or two. As she leads Ima down the winding staircases and broad archways of the castle, she explains how enraptured she was by the belly dancers at last night's meal. She insists and pleads and nearly begs that the Sultan's daughter must teach her. She will be handsomely rewarded, the King's ward promises with a sly smile. Though she would have needed no bribery in the first place, Ima accepts her offer and follows Morgana into the Great Hall. Except for the Sultan's musicians, the room is empty, slabs of dusty sunshine breaking through the windows in bright columns.

Unable to contain her excitement and spoiled heart, Morgana asks her new friend if she can borrow one of the costumes worn by the women last night. With a soft, amused laugh Ima assures the young Lady it will only hinder her as she tries to learn. She must first learn to be comfortable with the steps themselves, only then she can understand the importance of dressing the part.

They stand before the large mirror Morgana has requested and Ima beckons the musicians to begin something slow with an easy beat. She pulls herself up straight and tall, hands stretching in an arch above her head. and Morgana is instantly entranced, wondering if she can truly do this. But Ima's smile is patient and assuring as she encourages her friend to imitate her stance. She does so and is met with a bright grin.

"Perfect." Ima nods, "Now, rock your hips back and forth to the drums…good…feel the separation between your bones and muscle, the space between your hips and waist. Do you feel it?" With a smile of her own, Morgana shakes her head yes. "Good, excellent. Now try rotating your hips in a circle, slow like this."

Morgana is a quick learner (she always has been) and needs only to watch Ima for a few seconds before she's imitating her almost perfectly. She's never moved her body like this and finds it slightly awkward, but something about it also feels really good. These muscles have never been stretched before, this side of herself has never been opened up. The newness of it, the raw sensuality is all at once scary and exciting.

"You're doing very well." Ima gushes, genuinely impressed. "Try moving your hands along with your body. As if you're reaching for something, almost trying to catch it."

Without even thinking about it, Morgana arches her spine back, getting so lost in the music that her eyes flutter closed. Her hips continue to move, zigzagging and pivoting at the same time, as Ima's had. She imagines the metallic jangle that followed the dancers she watched last night as their gold embroidery and sewn in coins followed their movements. In her head she is one of them, dancing for the whole court to see, and no one can take their eyes away from her, not even Arthur. Her hips move a little faster at the thought, dipping and arching in circular waves. A small smile finds her lips as she thinks, this is amazing.

"Morgana?" And then…the daydream dissipates and she stumbles to stop, a gasp seizing her throat. When she has steadied herself against Ima, her eyes open and the music has stopped. The air is quiet and tense as Arthur's icy blue gaze digs into her from across the room. Though he doesn't look happy, there is something there that makes her feel as though he is just as unhinged as she is. "What _are_ you doing?"

For a few moments no words pass between them because Morgana really isn't sure what to say. Thankfully, Ima comes to her rescue, stepping in front of her and bowing low to the Crown Prince.

"My Lord." She offers, humbly. "I was merely trying to show your sister one of the customs of my people. I am sorry if I have offended your Highness."

Arthur continues to stare unamused, gaze flitting from Ima to the musicians to Morgana. His hand finds his hip, which is performing an arrogant tilt as his eyes come to rest on his adopted sister, boring into her. She can tell he doesn't know what to say and it makes the situation feel even more awkward. Finally, his mouth opens, but his gaze never strays from his father's ward.

"Ima, I appreciate your humoring Morgana but I think it best if you went back to your chambers. I'd like to have a word in private with my _sister_." It is the first time he has ever referred to her this way and it makes Morgana's blood run a little cold. Is this really worse than all of the other stunts she's pulled? She isn't hurting anyone, or embarrassing the King. Why are his knickers in such a twist over this?

"Of course, your Highness." Bowing her consent to the Prince, Ima leaves with her gaze down. Morgana wants to call out for her to stay and would under different circumstances, but even the musicians are getting up to leave for all the seriousness of Arthur's gaze. When they are finally alone, she crosses her arms just under her chest and takes a few steps towards him.

"I hope you're happy."

"Have you lost your wits?!" He is suddenly shouting at her, "Those women from the feast are not to be idolized! They make their living by entertaining men with their bodies, like whores! Do you think that imitating them is really the best way to thank my father for all his kindness towards you?"

Morgana's eyes narrow in anger, wondering what has gotten into him. She takes a few fearless steps closer, shaking her head back and forth in disbelief.

"Do you see anyone else in this room?" She responds, her own voice dangerously quiet. "I wasn't showing this off, I just wanted to know what it was _like_."

"What _what_ was like exactly? Being forced to dance half naked for your supper?"

"Listen to yourself." She spits in disgust, "As though you're so pious. I saw you watching them last night, you thought they were just as beautiful as I did."

"_Everyone_ was watching them." He reminds her, his voice low and restrained. In it she can hear the sub-textual growl, as though he's warning her not to push him too far. Immediately picking up on his sensitivity towards the subject, her first instinct is (of course) to prod it further.

"Did you take one of them to bed with you?" She is the only person who would ever have the gall to ask such a thing. She is also the only person he won't have thrown in the stocks for it.

"I don't see what business it is of yours who I invite to my bed, Morgana." He is nearly snarling at her now, arms crossed in a subconscious sign of bristling anger as he leans closer to her face.

"So you can _have_ them but I'm not allowed to _be_ them?" She counters, seeing the answer to her previously posed question in his avoidance of it.

"Morgana"- He warns her, but she won't listen. She never listens.

"Not even in an empty room with the doors locked and windows sealed? Can I express myself _nowhere_ Arthur? Should I be content to kneel at my bed and pray all day like a good little girl?"

"It would certainly make everyone's life much easier." He grinds out, voice tight with irritation, eyes burning into hers. She never knows what to make of the way her heart pounds painfully hard in her chest whenever they fight like this, the air crackling with tension of every kind.

"Well, obviously those aren't the kind of girls who get the Prince in the end." And with that she storms away from him, jade eyes brimming with tears that she holds onto tightly until safely within the walls of her bedroom

_Nothing but pennies in my pocket, nothing but faith to keep me warm  
Well, then I would be broke without it, tell me how much for your love  
Slip my heart in your back pocket, all that I've got to keep you warm  
So baby don't leave me here without it, tell me how much for your love_

Furious with her "brother" (she refuses to call him by anything else in the days that follow), Morgana throws herself into belly dancing. Every moment she isn't at Uther's side entertaining their guests or performing her duties as a member of the royal family, she is at her mirror. The music is only alive in her mind but it doesn't matter. Every time she closes her eyes the rhythm becomes a part of her and her body seems to take on a life of its own. In a world that has only ever sought to bind and oppress her, this is her one release. The fact that Arthur disapproves of it so vehemently only makes it that much sweeter.

Gwen doesn't say anything as she does her duties around Morgana's chambers, but she's a little concerned. She can see what her Lady is doing and she understand her frustration as a woman who is always expected to bent to the will of men. But this doesn't seem the healthiest outlet. Still, it isn't her place and she takes every effort not to say a word. Morgana already has more than enough people telling her what she should and shouldn't do, Gwen doesn't want to fall into the same role.

After a week and a half of solid practice morning, noon and night, Morgana finally begins to approve of what she sees reflected in her bedroom mirror. If not for her pale skin and short legs, she's sure she could pass for one of the dancers…if only she had one of their daring costumes.

She decides to go to Ima once more and ask for one of the outfits. This is her last chance because in less than two days, the Sultan's party will be gone, leaving Camelot empty and boring once again. The girls have grown close over the past eleven days and in her sorrow over having to leave her new found friend, Ima finds she cannot refuse Morgana anything. Knowing it will probably come back to haunt her, she leads the young Lady to the lower quarters in which the dancers are being kept.

Tall and commanding, Morgana expects them to walk like goddesses, fully aware and proud of their power over men. But they welcome her like overexcited children with warm embraces and loud laughter. She feels at home with them instantanly. They are more than happy to show her their many different outfits, insisting she try on each and every one for ensured perfection. The skirts are too long for her legs and she feels like a child as she trips over their hems. But instead of laughing, the dancers promise to alter anything she chooses for herself.

It is surprising to hear them fawn over her smooth skin, her petite figure, her jade eyes. This entire time she has thought their beauty untouchable and yet they are in awe of _her_. It is this acceptance that gives her the confidence to voice the desire that has been building in her heart since the afternoon her "brother" made her cry.

When the girls hear her out, the room is silent. Morgana looks into each of their faces, feeling naïve and immature. But she has worked _so_ hard and something inside of her burns to do this. They ask her if she is serious and she promises that she is. They ask her to show her what she has learned and as she does their heads bob slowly, impressed by her skill. If she does this, they warn her, there will almost certainly be consequences. They won't be able to protect her from the wrath of her king. She knows this already, and she doesn't care. Exchanging glances with each other, the dancers finally agree. She will join them in their final performance at Uther's court.

* * *

When they walk in, the room is silent. No one recognizes her at first, wrapped up in dark robes. As they stand in silent formation, Morgana's heart is beating against her chest like the wings of a dragon. Not fifteen feet in front of her sits Arthur, his bright blue eyes more at ease than she has seen them for the past two weeks. She can't help smiling at the fact that she is going to be the one to dispel all of that ease in the next sixty seconds or so.

The music begins drifting through the air, coiling around her like a snake. All at once, the women drop their coverings and a collective gasp (much sharper than before) fills the room. As Uther sits up straight, his eyes drawn together in confusion Morgana smirks wickedly. Her hips begin to jerk and swivel, the black and deep red of her outfit swaying with her and she is sure Arthur has never looked so helpless.

No one screams out to stop her, no one hushes the musicians or pulls her out of the circle. The entire hall is frozen in shock and mesmerized. When did this happen, they ask themselves wildly, how did she come to know this dance? As they continue to stare, every eye transfixed on her alone, Morgana soars. She channels her adrenaline into each shimmy of her chest, each roll of her spine, each twist of her waist and each arch of her hips, shining brighter than any of the dancers around her.

Though the room seems to spin, her eyes are able to snag occasionally on Uther's son. As she undulates her barely covered body, it seems he has difficulty breathing. The music is so loud she can barely hear her own laughter at the expression on his face. She doesn't care what he will scream in her face later, or if Uther locks her up in the dungeons for a week. She is getting away with this now. For the first time in her life she feels as though no bonds can hold her. She feels free.

The music ends and the dancers stand together in perfect formation, their heaving chests desperate for air the only part of them moving. For a moment there is only stunned silence. No one knows how to react because the King himself has yet to move a muscle. And then, Ibrahim stands from his chair and begins to clap. Ima follows, a proud smile on her face, with Oran quickly joining as well. Soon the entire hall has erupted in cheers. Even Uther, though still stiff with shock, stands and nods his head toward the dancers once. Arthur is the only soul in the room who stays seated. His chilly gaze (though it doesn't seem angry…) causes a shiver to ripple down her spine. With a sweep of their skirts, the dancers bow low to the ground and then turn to file out the oversized doors, the sounds of applause still filling the room.

Back in her chambers Morgana is dizzy with adrenaline. As she stands still in front of her mirror, the entire room seems to be rotating from one axis of balance to another. The blood in her veins rushes through her body so fast she can hear it pulse loud through her ears, feel the painful thud hammering against her ribs. But this is the best she's ever felt. At any moment, she is sure her skin will rip open, releasing her soul to the heavens in a million shards of brilliantly burning light.

She doesn't realize her eyes have fallen closed until the door creaks open, shutting softly seconds later. When her lashes lift, she expects to see the reflection of Gwen. Instead she is greeted with Arthur, who stands silently for a moment in the flickering light of her fireplace before strutting up behind her.

"I long for the day when I no longer have to grovel at my father's feet for _your _stupidity." His voice is not loud or angry as she has braced herself for, but instead defeated. Glancing up at the mirror, she sees that his eyes are lowered, a tired hand running through his hair. It is obvious he has been arguing with Uther and Morgana can't help wondering just how long she's been standing in front of this mirror.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me." She grumbles, not willing to voice how grateful she is to him for sticking his neck out on her behalf. He didn't have to do that.

"Would you rather spend the night in the dungeon then? Because I assure you, that can still be arranged." He promises, in no mood for her foolhardy overconfidence. A heavy sigh falls from his lips as he sinks down into one of her chairs. Longing for better control over this conversation, she steers the topic towards less abrasive waters.

"Are you honestly telling me you didn't enjoy the show?" Her smirk is suggestive as she turns and sways toward him with a lazy sort of grace, the black and red skirt hanging from her hips emphasizing each step. From under his lashes, Arthur offers only feigned boredom, not wanting to play her games.

"Why did you do it?" He asks, "What is it that feel you have to prove?"

Seeing they're going to get nowhere this evening, she gives up and lets the playful, seductress act fizzle away. If he wants to fight, she'll oblige him.

"You leave these walls every day to train with your knights. You hit and you punch and you beat each other up until all of the anger and frustration that your father, hell this entire kingdom, makes you feel is drained out of you. But what you forget is that I have to live with him to, I have to live up to the same standards as you do. I have no mother for answers, I have no room to breathe, I have no outlet for anything I am feeling. So, I act the part and I keep it in but…it doesn't help, Arthur. I wake up every morning and it's like I'm an animal chained inside of a cage that is growing smaller with each sunrise. This dance is the only thing that has ever made me feel like I can break out."

For a few moments he just stares up at her, the ice in his eyes melting into understanding, compassion. He knows what it is to be without a mother, and realizes for the first time how much harder it must be for Morgana as she herself is woman. She handles the pressures of court so well (most of the time), the limits of her strength can be an easy thing to take for granted. Taking her hand, he stands and leads her back over to the mirror so that she is facing it and he is less than an inch from the skin of her back. Their fingers are still touching when he leans down to whisper in her ear.

"So dance." At first, she is convinced she must not have heard him right. But the silence that follows suggests otherwise. His fingers slide over hers, lifting her arms away from her sides so that her hips will have the room they need. Slowly, he begins to rock from side to side and she has no choice but to do the same, the coins sewn into her skirts jangling lightly.

"I feel it only fair to warn you, my Lord." Her voice is low, almost teasing. "My services are not free."

"You think yourself so talented?" When he chuckles, it's deep within his chest and she can feel the vibration against her bare spine.

"If you haven't the assets, there is still time to change your mind." She offers him an ultimatum as her hips begin to dip and pivot in winding circles, like a cyclone that has been slowed to a sensual pace. With every completed circle, her skirts brush against his groin and Arthur has to fight very hard not to make a sound acknowledging this. Sweeping her hair away from her shoulder, he leans down to breathe along her ear.

"I assure you my Lady, whatever payment you demand shall be yours."

"That is a dangerous promise to make, Arthur." And he can hear in her voice, she is no longer playing a part but quite serious. What she fails to realize is that he is as well.

"Name your price." He entreats her, wrapping a hand around her waist and pulling her flush against his chest. The smooth warmth of her stomach sinks into his rough hands, calloused from years of swordplay. Her hips continue to move against him when she turns to look him in the eyes over her shoulder. Whatever witty retort she'd had planned dissipates when she sees that same concentrated, desperate look on his face from the first night the dancers performed. The look she'd never dreamed would be for her. Before either of them can stop it, his mouth is over hers.

Morgana's spine arches, her lower back pushing against him as she cranes her neck to accommodate him. When his tongue gently licks her lips, she grants him access but continues her slow, sultry dance against his body. She's determined to stay in control of the situation, even as the hand he has splayed across her stomach begins to edge beneath the material of her skirts.

Neither is sure how they end up on the bed, or how their clothes scatter across the room haphazardly. All Morgana knows is that the weight of his body above her, his warm skin surrounding her as they sink into the soft sheets of her bed feels better than she ever dreamed. Arthur is breathless, finding it hard to believe that her arms are really pulling him as close to her as he's always wanted to be. As his mouth presses soft, wet kisses into the skin of her neck, collarbone, chest and stomach he inhales the intoxicating scent of gardenia and everything else beyond the two of them seems a forgotten myth.

Lifting her thigh over his shoulder, he places a soft kiss on the inside of her leg before positioning himself at her entrance. But then, must to his confusion (and disappointment), she orders him to stop. He's not sure how he holds himself back, but for her he is willing to try. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls herself flush against his chest as their mouths mold together once more. Her hands gets lost in his hair, her fingers nails running lightly up and down his spine. Lost in the dizzying pleasure of her body, he doesn't even notice that she's turned him around until her hands are pushing him down on his back. It's then that he realizes (and probably should have realized before) tonight of all nights, she has to be in control.

She holds herself above him for a long string of seconds that stretch on painfully, waiting for him to beg. Fingers digging into her waist, he looks up at her with helpless eyes.

"Please."

Morgana feels her heart flutter and her eyes roll back into her head as he fills her. They move together, her hands splayed across his chest as she uses the controlled hip movements she's learned against him. As she rotates, dips, pivots, jerks, Arthur feels more than just bursts of pleasure that leave him gasping for air. There's a sense of relief, of total relaxation washing over him because for once he doesn't have to worry about being in control. For once he's being taken care of and God, he could get used to this.

They climax together, her hands fisting around his sweaty hair, his lips bruising against her own. Finally, it ends and she collapses onto his chest, spent. When the stars have faded and they can finally see straight, Morgana carefully climbs off of the bed. She throws on a thin robe and grabs a washcloth from the water basin to wipe away the sweat. Arthur watches quietly from her bed as she struts around the room, cool and collected. When she returns to him, he gets the cold washcloth thrown in his face as Morgana looks down at him with a smirk.

"I won't have you messing up my sheets." She explains playfully, tucking herself under the heavy blankts.

"I think they're already pretty dirty." He chuckles in her ear, pressing a kiss just behind it before picking up the washcloth and doing as she asks. Morgana watches him the same he watched her, fascinated by the broadness of his shoulders, the way the firelight softens his pale skin. Now that they've submitted to one another, now that she knows he at least doesn't hate her, admitting her feelings comes easily.

"I think I'm in love with you." She murmurs fearlessly, curling up against his side the moment he gets back into bed. They both know he's spending the night here, it only seems obvious. He looks down at her mussed hair, her swollen lips and honest eyes, sure she's never been more beautiful than right now.

"And who could blame you?" He shrugs casually, earing him a harmless jab in the ribs. A deep chuckle resounds in his chest as he wraps an arm around her and holds her tight to his chest. When he speaks next, it is an almost inaudibly mumble in the thick strands of her hair. "I love you too."

"Then why have you been such a prat?" She pleads childishly, never one to let a moment between them pass without at least one insult. Though inwardly, her heart is beating hard and slow in her chest.

"You think it's easy, watching you parade around like a harlot?" He jabs back, "It's bad enough watching the way men look at you when you're dressed _decently_. Then you get up in the middle of a feast half-naked and start shaking your arse for all of Camelot to see? I hope you realize I'm going to have to have a serious talk with my men tomorrow because of you. I caught _all _of them staring."

"Oh, like you saw anything but _me_ in that hall." She scoffs confidently. He ignores this (because it's true) and ventures on trying to vindicate himself.

"I just want to keep you safe. We all do. But I never stopped to realize than in the process we might be trapping you. I'm sorry for that." For once his life, the apology sounds genuine and Morgana can feel her heart melting into a soppy puddle.

"You should be." She smirks up at him before sighing melodramatically. "But I suppose this is a good start on the very long road of redemption that awaits you."

His eyes widen and he crawls over her, holding her wrists down around her dark hair.

"I'll show you redemption." He growls, tugging lightly on her earlobe with his teeth. Morgana giggles, unable to stop her arms from wrapping around him on pure instinct. As their mouths meet again she figures, maybe they don't have to disagree on _everything_.

* * *

The next morning's sky is overcast above the courtyard as Uther and his children (adopted or otherwise) see the Sultan and his own family off. Morgana hates to see Ima go but she is hearing rumors amongst the servants (well, mostly Gwen, who heard it from Merlin who heard it from Gaius) that the King may be planning a trip to visit the Sultan at his own palace. Though she knows she shouldn't, Morgana can't help whispering this small hope to her new friend as they hug goodbye, in an effort to ease the sorrow, at least for a while.

When Oran bows before her once more and take her hand to his lips, she makes great efforts not to encourage him with the usual flirtation and suggestive smiles. She's glad for once that Arthur no longer looks jealous but instead rather pleased with himself. Between the long goodbyes and cheek-to-cheek kisses, they have already exchanged a few heated glances this morning and Morgana feels nervous energy bound through her at the prospect of finding out what lays behind the silent looks.

Finally, she comes to Ibrahim, who harbors an amused sparkle in his murky eyes.

"I have never seen a lady so taken with my people that she wishes to be as one of them. I have assured your King I find this the most welcoming gesture we have ever had the pleasure of enjoying and that, though I may have had my doubts about trading with your people before, your quickness to embrace us sealed my confidence. It is because of you I put my trust so readily in this land."

Morgana is sure she doesn't even have words, but she could collapse with relief right there in the courtyard for finally having done something right in the world of men. Even if it was just dancing half naked in public.

"I can say with full confidence that my heart has never been so full as it was during your stay." She promises, hoping no one catches the meaningful glance she gives Arthur when the Sultan leans down to kiss her hand.

"Thank you, my Lady. It is with great sadness that we leave, but with hope that we may soon meet again."

She tilts her head in a sign of agreement, curtsying gracefully at the same time. The party has soon left and Morgana finds she is not as sad as she had thought she would be. After all, she will see them again, Uther can't be too angry with her and Arthur is in love with her. What more could she really ask for?

With a hardened glance in Morgana's direction, Uther sweeps out of the blustery courtyard in silence, his fury tempered by Arthur's zealous defense the night before and the Sultan's unexpected gratitude.

"Well, that went better than expected." Arthur nods confidently, watching the strangers leave with a softened sort of fondness in his eyes. Considering the outcome of their visit, he figures he can't hold anything against the Sultan or his people.

"And already Camelot feels a little more boring." Morgana sighs wistfully, turning to her adoptive brother with a mischievous look about her.

"Care to liven things up a bit?" He suggests, his voice all at once playful with an undercurrent of yearning as he takes a few steps closer to the King's ward. She looks up at him expectantly, lips parted. But just because he's admitted his love for her doesn't mean the games have ended. "I think a race through the woods is in order. Meet you at the stable in fifteen minutes?"

Morgana shakes her head at his teasing, already backing towards the castle.

"In the mood to have your ego bruised?" She asks, a patronizing sort of smile on her face.

"Oh there will probably be bruises," He concedes a nod, "But not on my ego."

And with that they race off to their separate chambers to change.

* * *

Well what'd you think? I'm so happy with the way this turned out :) I worked really hard on this, so please leave a few words letting me know how you feel about it! Thanks so much.


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